


Revenge

by justakidfromhellskitchen



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 16:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15755694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justakidfromhellskitchen/pseuds/justakidfromhellskitchen
Summary: Chapter Three of Captive Prince as told from Laurent's point of view.





	Revenge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeathValleyQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathValleyQueen/gifts).



The sawdust muted Laurent’s footsteps. He had chosen to wait, to make the Akielon slave sweat. But though he looked uncomfortable, strapped to the cross like a commoner, fear did not register on his barbaric face.

Laurent corralled any stray piece of emotion into determination. His eyes narrowed though he did not meet the slave’s gaze, which followed him like a hound’s, following prey across the courtyard.

The whistling sound of the lash broke the air. Laurent leaned a casual shoulder against the roughened and crumbling wall of the courtyard, commanding his body into a pose of relaxation.

It had an immediate effect on the slave. His jaw tightened, and he began pulling at the restraints holding him against the cross.

Satisfaction threatened to surface for a brief moment but Laurent held it from his eyes. Small victories were meant to be enjoyed privately.

At last, the Akielon was gagged and all was prepared.

The servant looked expectantly at him. “How many stripes?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Laurent said, his tone as casual as his lean against the wall. “I’m sure I’ll decide eventually. You can begin.”

The first strike surprised the Akielon. As suspected, he had never been subject to a lash. That much was apparent. Muscles bunched and rippled under the force of the whip. At first, it looked as if the slave would resist the entire way.

But then the lash had broken stronger men under Laurent’s direction. He would give in eventually.

Eventually, he did.

Laurent saw the shift as the Akielon slave gave up any semblance of control and leaned his forehead against the wooden post of the cross. It was a helpless gesture. Defiance and ambition, which usually penetrated the slave’s eyes, were extinguished with each subsequent blow.

There was something about watching a man’s mental defenses stripped to bare bones. Laurent still had to admit a minor miscalculation: The slave was made of stronger material than he’d imagined.

“Stop,” Laurent commanded, at last, holding up a hand in the air. The lash stilled. In the absence of its sound, there was the slave’s ragged breathing. “Remove the gag. I want to speak to him.”

It took a few breaths for the slave to recognize that Laurent stood directly in front of him. He was filthy with sweat, his back ruined with blood, his hair dripping with the effort of pain.

“I should have done this to you the day you arrived,” Laurent said. “It’s exactly what you deserve.”

“Why didn’t you?” the slave said. His voice was hoarse as if he’d been screaming for the entirety of being lashed. But the words were made of steel as if the whip had exposed a cold, immovable center. “You are cold-blooded and honorless. What held back someone like you?”

Honorless. That was rich coming from a barbarian who had slain Auguste without a single thought. For what? For honor? For glory? For land?

Perhaps it was the knowledge that he, at last, faced his brother’s killer. Or maybe it was that the slave had the audacity to find him pleasing in any way, despite knowing what he’d done to Auguste. Either way, disgust crawled up its way from Laurent’s chest to his throat. Again, he stopped it short of becoming an expression.

“I’m not sure,” Laurent drawled, straining any emotion out of each word that left his mouth. The truth, still, lurked underneath. “I was curious what kind of man you were. I see we have stopped too early. Again.”

Laurent returned his relaxed pose, nudged the wall with his shoulder again. His eyes fixated on the slave once more.

“Your Highness.”

Laurent’s eyes flicked to the servant’s, narrowing.

“I’m not certain he’ll survive another round.”

Renewed hatred branded his blood, but there was only ice in his voice. “I think he will,” and he knew it to be true. Sympathy had no place in this courtyard. “Why don’t we make a wager? A gold coin says he lives. If you want to win it from me, you’ll have to exert yourself.”

That seemed to motivate the man. Lashes rained on the Akielon’s back, and Laurent surrendered his weight to the wall. His pulse battled against his chest.

It was not enough.

He used to dream of this moment in the dark of his loneliness after Marlas, used to let his imagination roam wild as a beast, frothing at the mouth, and bring the head of Damianos to his people.

The sound of the lashes fell away and the courtyard grayed. Laurent’s pulse shuddered in his jaw.

“Laurent.”

Auguste, golden and wrapped in a gauze of decaying memory, stood with his back to the slave. He faced Laurent, armed with a sad smile and his golden curls.

Laurent forced himself to look past Auguste, to watch the Akielon’s suffering instead.

“Please, Laurent, stop this. You know I would not care for it.”

Laurent did not dare move a single muscle, to give himself away.

“You are better than this, Laurent. You have never cared for violence. Not like this.”

Laurent forced himself to watch. He would see Damianos flayed alive, his uncle and politics be damned.

“Laurent.”

And Laurent committed the mistake of meeting Auguste’s eyes. They were as blue as his own but radiating warmth akin to a midsummer day’s sky.

“Laurent, you are not a murderer.” Auguste’s voice was dusty with time, and it befitted his frozen image, extracted by Laurent’s cruel mind from an archived recollection. A dark stain spread at the center of his midnight blue uniform.

“Stop,” Laurent said again, the command ringing in the courtyard. The whip came to a halt. Auguste’s wavering image faded by the breeze, and color returned to the present.

They unstrapped the slave. Laurent watched, pushing himself off the wall. Every step towards the slave was as deliberate as his words. “I was on the field at Marlas.”

The Akielon slave’s head lolled, but his brown eyes found Laurent’s.

“They wouldn’t let me near the front. I never had the chance to face him.” The words sharpened into arrows, and Laurent loosened them with precise aim. “I used to wonder what I’d say to him if I did. What I’d do. How dare any one of you speak the word _honor_?” More words whetted against the rough hatred in his throat. “I know your kind. A Veretian who treats honorably with an Akielon will be gutted with his own sword. It’s your countryman who taught me that. You can thank him for that lesson.”

The Akielon’s reply spluttered out as Laurent knew it would. “ _Thank who_?”

Laurent readied his last sentence like a knife, his fist closing as if on its hilt before pressing it in, deeply. “Damianos, the dead Prince of Akielos. The man who killed my brother.”

Laurent was not a murderer, perhaps, but Auguste had been wrong. Violence was a language Laurent spoke fluently, and he enjoyed watching his enemies bleed with words.


End file.
